


Killian Jones, Concertmaster Extraordinaire

by PhiraLovesLoki



Series: Captain Swan Tumblr Prompts [8]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Orchestra, Classical Music, F/M, Romance, Sabotage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2015-06-11
Packaged: 2018-04-03 07:06:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4091650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhiraLovesLoki/pseuds/PhiraLovesLoki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emma Swan never expected to win the concerto competition, and Killian Jones, the egocentric first violinist, never expected to lose. But his plans to sabotage the flutist go horribly awry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Allegro con fermezza

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rowenaravenklaw](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=rowenaravenklaw).



> Happy (belated) birthday to my friend Sunny, who asked for an orchestra AU! Many thanks to Ella (emma-said-i-love-you) for beta-reading this for me!
> 
> The concerto in this story is Khachaturian’s concerto for violin/flute, specifically the third movement. It’s a hoot, even if you’re not into classical music.
> 
> For a recording of the Khachaturian, and for some background information if you're unfamiliar with concerto competitions, I've posted some reference info at this link: http://phiralovesloki.tumblr.com/private/120919215954/tumblr_npkd41TNpU1tghewx

“He’s such a drama queen,” Tink said under her breath as Killian Jones, Concertmaster Extraordinaire, swaggered his way into the rehearsal hall.

“I’ve never had to give that many additional As during a concert before,” Mary Margaret said irritably, referring to the winter concert last month, and the last time the orchestra had met before winter break. Emma nodded, remembering how embarrassed Mr. Gold, their conductor, had been. The strings hadn’t been _that_ out of tune, and asking for additional As had made the orchestra look unprepared and unprofessional.

“At least you’re not in the string section,” Tink said bitterly. “He’s even bossier with the rest of us.”

“It’s true,” Robin said wearily; as Killian’s standmate, it was a miracle he didn’t complain more. “But after a while, you just sort of tune him out. He’s full of hot air. Should have considered putting that particular talent of his to good work as a trumpet player.”

“Hey!” Leroy, first chair of the trumpet section, had been within earshot.

“Sorry, Leroy.”

“Yeah, you’d _better_ be,” he muttered, before grabbing his case and stomping into the hall.

“Guess we’d better head in,” Emma said, picking up her bag as well.

She took her place in the flute section, next to Anton. “How was your week?” she asked as she set up her instrument stands and started piecing together her flute.

“It was all right. Same old. How was yours?”

“Same old,” she replied with a smile. Flutists had a terrible, generally well-deserved reputation as overly competitive backstabbers, so it was refreshing to play with flutists like Anton who were relaxed and friendly. _He_ got what it was all about: they were here to enjoy themselves and make music together. It didn’t always have to be about perfection. Yes, they were one of the best youth orchestras in the country, and the majority of musicians in the group went on to Rice or Eastman or NEC or Julliard. But Emma could be talented and still have _fun._

She was putting her piccolo together when Regina arrived. “Anton,” she said curtly in greeting. “Swan.”

“Hey, Regina,” Emma replied.

“How was your week?” Anton asked.

“Fine. Got lots of practicing done. Gold’s going to announce the winner of the concerto competition today.”

Emma’s heart sank. She’d auditioned for it on the recommendation of her teacher, Ingrid, who suggested that it might be a great way to challenge herself. She knew that she didn’t stand a chance at winning, but her stomach still turned in anticipation. She’d spent several nights, lying awake in bed, trying in vain not to think about what it would feel like to win.

“Oh yeah.” Anton turned to her. “Emma, didn’t you audition for that?”

“Yeah,” she said quickly before lifting up her picc to start warming up. Anton took the hint and engaged Regina in conversation until Ruby, the other first flutist, arrived and sat between them.

Soon enough, Gold arrived. His son Neal, reed already in his mouth, wormed his way back to the clarinet section, trying to disturb as few stands as he did so. He nodded at Emma as he passed her, by way of greeting, not wanting to interrupt his dad. She was glad that they were still on good terms after their break-up, even if Gold hadn’t gotten the memo.

“Good morning, all,” Gold said. His tone was impossible to interpret from the short sentence, which meant that either he was in a great mood and rehearsal would be enjoyable, or that he was in a terrible mood, and god help anyone who made any obvious mistakes. It was one of the downsides to playing piccolo; if she messed up, there was no way to hide.

“I’m sure you’re all _very_ interested in the results of this year’s concerto competition,” he said. “I was hoping to wait until the end of rehearsal to announce the winner, but since the music for it is involved and complex, we’ll be handing out parts now so we can get started this very rehearsal. I know that means you’ll be sight-reading, but since sight-reading was a component of all of your auditions for this illustrious orchestra, I assume that will not be an issue.”

Crap. So, not a good mood. But at least she hadn’t won, she reasoned. If they were getting started today, that meant the soloist had no time to prepare, and there were few people in the group that Gold might spring this sort of surprise on. Killian, of course, and probably Regina. But not her.

Gold’s assistant conductor Archie began handing out the parts as Gold continued. “The piece we will be playing is by Aram Khachaturian, and I’m sure that most of you are familiar with his famed ‘Sabre Dance’ from the ballet _Gayane._ We will be performing a movement from his popular violin concerto.” He looked toward the violin section. “Judging by the looks of astonishment and fear on your faces, I can see that most of you are familiar with the level of skill this piece requires of its soloist.”

Emma let out a shaky sigh. She’d auditioned with the third movement of that concerto; the composer had allowed the piece to be transcribed for flute, and it was one of her favorite pieces of music. She shouldn’t have been surprised that one of the violinists had auditioned with that concerto as well. She couldn’t see the look on Killian Jones’ face, but she would bet anything that he’d won. Of _course_ he’d won. Smug bastard.

The sheet music had reached her section, but Regina was flipping through the pages, confused. She turned to Ruby, Anton, and Emma and shrugged. “What?” Emma mouthed, but whatever was wrong, it was too difficult for Regina to mime an answer. It would have to wait until Gold was done speaking. Regina shook her head, took her part off the top of the stack, and whispered something to Ruby, who whispered something to Anton, who whispered to Emma: “There are only three sets of music.”

Huh?

Typically, there were two or three parts for their section: first flute, second flute, and occasionally piccolo. If there were two parts, it was easy to double up: Ruby joined Regina on first flute, and Emma joined Anton on second, sitting out if the dynamic was less than mezzoforte, or if there was a solo. If there was a piccolo part, that was Emma’s duty, and Ruby would double either first or second depending on where she was needed for balance.

Regina held up her stack of music for first flute and pointed at herself. She then picked up another stack and pointed to Ruby before handing it to her. The final stack, though, she shrugged and passed it to Anton. It was the piccolo part, but at the top was written, in Archie’s nearly illegible scrawl: _ANTON._

Why would _Anton_ have the piccolo part? And where was _her_ part?

Gold continued, inadvertently answering her questions. “What many of you do not know, though, is that in the nineteen-sixties, Jean-Pierre Rampal, one of the world’s greatest and most celebrated flautists, asked Khachaturian to write a flute concerto. The composer declined, but gave Rampal permission to transcribe the violin concerto for flute. The resulting concerto is even more challenging than the original, given the fact that the music was written for an instrument that did not require pauses for breathing.”

In an instant, everything shifted. Killian Jones turned to face the flute section in horror.

“And so, let us congratulate Ms Emma Swan, who will be performing the third movement of this demanding but beautiful concerto, in our spring concert.”

She was so stunned that she barely registered the fact that the clapping and cheering from the wind section was genuinely enthusiastic. She’d _won?_ _How?_

Oh shit. She’d won. In four months, she was going to have to perform a _ten minute movement_ from the most _difficult_ concerto she’d ever played in her life, and she was going to have to do it _from memory in front of an audience_.

And judging from some of the glares she was getting, she knew that there were going to be people in the orchestra who would be experiencing some serious _schadenfreude_ every time she made a mistake.

Especially the concertmaster, whose glare was particularly piercing. Shit.

* * *

 

Killian knew that rocking the proverbial boat with Gold was typically a mistake. The man preferred his orchestra to operate as smoothly as possible without him having to intervene. But it wasn’t _just_ that the concerto competition would be an invaluable addition to his conservatory applications.

He didn’t know the winner—Emma Swan—very well, but she was the _piccolo player_. Not only did that mean that he could always hear every little mistake she made (and she made plenty!), but it also meant that she was _not_ the most talented flutist in the ensemble. Losing to the principal flutist, Regina Mills, would have been one thing. But that wasn’t what happened.

He, Killian Jones, Concertmaster Extraordinaire, had been bested by _the piccolo player._ And she had auditioned with the _same_ piece of music _he_ had. The same movement, even!

Gold didn’t even bother looking up from his scores as Killian approached. “I’m not sure what you hope to gain from this interaction, Mr Jones.”

“She’s the _piccolo_ player,” Killian stressed. “If you’d picked Regina, _maybe_ I could understand.”

“Ms Mills played very well in her audition,” Gold commented. “Ms Swan played just as well. But given the level of difficulty inherent in the piece she selected, her performance was more impressive.” He glanced up at Killian, his expression slightly mirthful. “I don’t need to tell _you_ how difficult that particular movement is.”

“Then I have to wonder if there was any way I could have played that particular movement _more perfectly_ ,” Killian said, clenching his fists. “You have to understand why I might be a little offended.”

“Mr Jones, you played the movement very well.” Gold was losing his patience. “But so did she. And, as I’m sure you recall from your audition a few weeks ago, I was not the only judge in the room. Perhaps I should direct you to the other faculty members who chose Ms Swan, and you can whinge all you’d like at them.”

“But this just isn’t fair. She didn’t even play well today!”

“I was disappointed in her performance today, yes,” Gold agreed. “But unlike previous winners, she was not made aware of her win in advance and had no time to prepare.”

“I would have been prepared.”

“And if she fails to prepare adequately for future rehearsals, then perhaps I will reconsider who will be performing in May,” Gold said firmly.

It took a moment for the comment to register. “I’m not sure I understand, sir.”

Gold closed his scores and began fitting them into his briefcase. “I can trust that this conversation will remain between us?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Very good. Then perhaps it wouldn’t be unprofessional of me to inform you that the other two judges were quite taken with Ms Swan, and their only question was whether to award the victory to her, _or_ to the guest pianist who had auditioned with _Rhapsody in Blue_. Rather than argue with them to try to sway them towards a more … _deserving_ musician, it occurred to me that I might be able to take advantage of the fact that Ms Swan was not the only student to prepare the piece of music she’d selected.”

He finished putting away his baton and writing utensils, and then met Killian’s gaze purposefully. “That is to say, Mr Jones, that selecting Ms Swan as our soloist means that, if she is _unable_ to perform to my satisfaction, I have the ability to replace her as soloist without requiring the ensemble to learn a new piece of music. Do you understand what I’m saying, Mr Jones?”

Killian nodded, his hands relaxing and heart thumping. “I understand, sir.”

“Good. Now I’m leaving.” He threw on his coat, grabbed his belongings, and began to exit the otherwise empty rehearsal hall before turning around. “Oh, and Mr Jones?”

“Sir?”

“Don’t _ever_ come whining to me ever again.”

He wouldn’t need to.

All he’d need to do was get into this flutist’s head. And when he did, _he’d_ be the one standing up at the front of the stage, playing that movement the way it was meant to be played. The question was: how would he go about doing it?

It was easier with other string players, because he had to admit, he didn’t know the first thing about flute playing. It would be difficult to intimidate her musically if they played entirely different instruments.

But the fact that they were both intimately familiar with the concerto was definitely an advantage.

He got his opportunity the following week, as rehearsal ended. She had played reasonably well when they’d rehearsed the concerto, her mistakes seemingly due to nerves, but they had been rehearsing an easier portion of the movement. He got his chance immediately as rehearsal ended, before she could make her way back to her seat (the last flute seat … _really_ , how had he lost to her?).

“Excuse me,” he said quickly, grabbing her arm. “Swan, right?”

“Uh, yeah?” She seemed anxious rather than irritated.

“I’m Killian Jones.”

“I know.”

Of course she knew. He smiled. “I didn’t get a chance to formally congratulate you,” he said, infusing his words with as much sincerity as he could. “This is an incredibly difficult piece of music, so well done, love.”

“Thanks.”

The lass wasn’t terribly effusive, was she? “I was thinking, it might be a tad easier for me to whip these lads and lasses into shape if I had a better idea of what to expect from you,” he continued, referring to the responsibilities he had with the rest of the violin section. “That is, I think I could do my job as concertmaster better if perhaps you and I worked together a bit.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m not exactly swimming in free time.”

“Neither am I,” he replied truthfully. “But, you see, I _also_ auditioned for the competition with this piece.” She stiffened, but she didn’t seem surprised; had someone told her? Or had she guessed? “And since I’m so familiar with it on the instrument for which it was originally intended, I might be able to give you some pointers and tips if we worked together.”

She seemed to be considering the offer. “That might be helpful. My teacher hadn’t even heard of the piece before I brought it to her, so I’ve been kind of coming at this completely blind. But when and where would we even do this?”

“Are you free before rehearsal perhaps?”

“I guess. I have my weekly flute lesson at nine, and I usually eat lunch and do homework before rehearsal.”

It wouldn’t be ideal. He typically arrived at ten and practiced until noon rehearsal. He’d have to arrive early to make up for it, which wasn’t a very attractive option. But the reward? It would be worth it. “Why don’t we grab lunch after your lesson, and then we can take over a practice room till rehearsal?”

“I have a lot of homework,” she said, and his spirits dropped. He hated to suggest working together _after_ rehearsal, but it seemed to be the only option. But before he could say so, she spoke up. “But I guess maybe we could give it a try. Trial basis. If I fall too behind in my schoolwork, though, I’ll have to call it quits.”

“I’m sure it won’t be a problem.” He grinned. “I’ll see you next Saturday, Swan.”

Now, all he needed to do was figure out the first plan of attack.


	2. Allegro non troppo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, a reference for the story, which includes a link to the 3rd movement of the Khachaturian, can be found here: http://phiralovesloki.tumblr.com/private/120919215954/tumblr_npkd41TNpU1tghewx

After finishing her lesson with Ingrid, Emma wandered up to the lobby of the conservatory. Sure enough, Killian Jones, Concertmaster Extraordinaire, was leaning up against the statue of Beethoven, violin case in one hand and smartphone in the other. “Uh, hey,” she said, getting his attention. “Okay, so how are we going to do this?”

He smiled, clearly pleased she hadn’t bailed. “And good morning to you, too, Swan.”

“It’s too early for lunch.” And, she thought, too early to pretend she wasn’t regretting this decision. She had way too much homework to do, and she spent _enough_ time practicing this damn concerto during the week. Not to mention the fact that ever since he’d approached her last week, her alarm bells had been going off like crazy.

“Well then, perhaps we can get started in a practice room and find sustenance around eleven,” he suggested. “Shall I lead the way?” She shrugged at him, and he nodded before walking towards the practice rooms.

She wished she’d thought to keep her flute out after her lesson so she wouldn’t have to warm up twice; she’d have to do that next week. Although that would only happen if _today_ went well, and she was pretty sure it wouldn’t.

What did she need Killian Jones’ help for anyway? She had three different professional recordings she was listening to (including a violin one), she had her flute teacher, and she had Gold giving her notes as well. This all seemed like an exercise in stroking Jones’ already enormous ego. Or something like that—she just had this gut feeling that they were doing this entirely for him, and not for her. But she _was_ curious: to see if maybe she could benefit from this arrangement, _and_ to see if she could figure out his motive.

Once in the practice room, she handed her music and notes to Jones, who sat down at the piano, and put together her flute.

“It’s so very strange to see it without bow markings,” he commented—unnecessarily, in her opinion. “It must be much easier for you to read.”

“Well, I’m not going to be reading it on stage,” she reminded him as she adjusted her headjoint.

“I’ll be interested in seeing where you’ve chosen to breathe.”

“You do know, Mr Violinist, that it’s not really a _choice_ to breathe.” He laughed. “I’m still trying to optimize it, but there’s never gonna be a perfect strategy. They’re marked with those giant check marks.”

“I see.” He flipped through the music more. “Also strange to see it without double stops.”

She was about to bring her flute to her lips to do a quick warm up, but stopped. She might have agreed to this probably unnecessary collaboration (or whatever anyone could call it), but she wasn’t going to put up with this sort of passive-aggressive negging. “You know, I don’t know what bow markings or double stops are.” He opened his stupid mouth (probably to tell her what they were), but she cut him off. “I don’t really _care_ that I don’t know what they are, but this piece isn’t easier on flute just because the sheet music looks cleaner. Got it?”

“Got it.” He sounded a little subdued, but she was hoping he’d be a little more sheepish. “So, I haven’t heard you play the whole thing yet. Why don’t we try that?”

“Okay,” she said, suddenly nervous. It wasn’t that she was nervous to play in front of _him;_ it was that she was _still_ experiencing nearly constant low levels of nervousness when it came to playing from memory. She’d been trying _everything_ she could to improve her memorization, but she still struggled. Her audition had been a fluke, with the majority of her mistakes being obviously caused by her nerves. But then again, she couldn’t have that happen when she was on stage in May, when it mattered.

And so she played. She didn’t play well.

She didn’t play _badly_ , but if there was one way to ensure that Killian Jones would feel extremely superior to her, _this_ was it. She flubbed the opening a bit. She rushed a bunch of the runs in the sections she was most nervous about. She forgot to breathe during one of the more grueling sections and had to take a breathe at a point that was really inconvenient. And there were some rhythmic bits towards the end that had always been challenging, and naturally, she found herself slightly offbeat as she played through them.

Her final high D cracked, too, which was embarrassing. She’d known that the high note, one of the highest possible notes on the instrument, had probably been one of the reasons she’d won the competition. She hadn’t just _chosen_ the higher register—she’d really _nailed_ it, playing it without going shrill or sharp. No such luck today.

“Okay,” she said, breathing hard, as she always did when she played this concerto. “So that’s the whole thing. I know, I fucked it up a lot,” she added, anticipating his criticisms.

“It’s a difficult piece of music,” he said, and to her surprise, he sounded _almost_ understanding. “And it’s lengthy—memorizing it isn’t a simple task.”

“No, it’s not,” she replied bitterly. “What’s worse is that it’s not even really _memorization_ that’s the problem.”

“What is?”

She didn’t reply right away. And when she did, it wasn’t to answer him. “Why are you doing this again?”

“Doing what?” He obviously hadn’t expected the question, and seemed genuinely confused.

“You said you wanted to get an idea of what to expect from me,” she reminded him. “So you could know how to work with the rest of the strings. And you said you had pointers for me, since you’ve played it, too.”

“Aye, and I do.”

“So, you know what to expect from me now, I guess. Give me your tips.”

Now it was his turn not to reply right away. Instead, he remained sitting on the piano bench, one hand on his knee and the other clutching her music, assessing her. He seemed to understand that the next thing he said could either be helpful, or really fucking stupid, and that he should consider his words carefully. Which was probably wise.

She jumped slightly as he stood suddenly and began flipping through the music as he approached her. “Here,” he said, pointing to a particular run of sixteenth notes that had been giving her a lot of grief, even when she wasn’t playing from memory.

“Yeah?”

“Try dropping this sixteenth note.” He grabbed a pencil from his pocket and lifted it to the note to point at it. Good—she wouldn’t have liked it if he’d actually written in her music without permission.

“Why?” she asked.

He used the pencil to point to a note a few measures earlier. “Here, you dropped this sixteenth note to take a breath.”

“I know.” Was he going to insist that she find another place to breathe?

“You _have_ to take the breath there.” It wasn’t a question, at least. “But I bet if you didn’t have to, you wouldn’t have any trouble with the run.”

“But I _do_ have to breathe there,” she reminded him. Was he this thick? “So what’s the point?”

He grabbed the music stand from where she’d shoved it in the corner, set it in front of her, and adjusted it before dropping her music onto it. “Play from here,” he said, pointing at a spot before both the breath and the troublesome run, “and do it in one breath.”

“Okay.” It didn’t make any sense, though; it wasn’t as though she could skip the breath that she’d put in. She wasn’t a violinist, for god’s sake! But she’d humor him. She lifted up her instrument, took a breath, and began playing mid-phrase, at the measure he’d pointed to. Although she had to consciously avoid breathing at the end of the phrase, she powered through, and to her surprise, she nailed the difficult run—and it didn’t feel nearly as difficult.

“How did you know that would work?” she asked suspiciously.

He scratched behind one of his ears. “I wasn’t certain it would,” he admitted. “But when you breathe, you often sort of … reset yourself. Not all the time, mind you—just during some of the more technically challenging sections. It’s not the run that’s the problem—clearly, you can do the run. And you _do_ have to breathe where you plan to. But I just wanted to show you that you _could_ do the run.”

“And you think now that I have my confidence, it won’t be an issue?” she asked skeptically.

“No. I think that you needed to know it wasn’t something you were doing wrong. The problem is the nature of the music, not simply lack of ability.”

She knew her mouth was slightly open in surprise, but he was being sincere. She just hadn’t been expecting it. “So you think I should drop one of the notes in the run?”

“Aye—this one in particular is probably the best one. Look, it’s simply a suggestion. Obviously, the best scenario would be if you could master the run _with_ your necessary breath. But it might help.”

“I’ll think about it.” She wasn’t just trying to get him to stop talking; she really meant it. He was right: it would be way better for her to deliberately leave out a note than to sound sloppy. But she would need to take the time to try everything out, and see which option was the most comfortable for her. She briefly imagined Gold’s displeasure—she knew he’d just expect her to perfect the run—but she had to remember: _she’d won._ She wasn’t auditioning anymore. So what if she left out _one note_ or struggled with _one run?_ “So what next?”

He smiled, as though she’d done something he’d been hoping she’d do. “Perhaps let’s have another go?” he asked. “I think you’re still getting comfortable.”

“It’s just weird playing for you,” she commented. “But fine.” And she lifted her flute back up to her lips, and began.

* * *

 

It had gone well, he thought, as they settled into their seats for rehearsal. She certainly wasn’t going down without a fight, though, _that_ much was clear. That he was Killian Jones, Concertmaster Extraordinaire, clearly mattered little to her; she’d held her own and argued against plenty of his suggestions the entire hour they’d worked together. And when they’d gotten sandwiches for lunch, she offered very little in the way of conversation. He’d never noticed whether or not she was chatty with her friends, and if her silence was because of him, or if that’s just who she was. Either way, he’d need to get past that façade if he was going to succeed.

Rehearsal began well enough, but then again, he’d always enjoyed Mahler; they wouldn’t be rehearsing the Khachaturian until after their break halfway through. He _hated_ rehearsing the Khachaturian. It was a stark reminder that he had lost to the piccolo player, on a concerto written for _his_ instrument.

When it came time to rehearse it, though, he put on a pleasant face and even smiled at Swan as she took her place beside him. For now, she would face the orchestra, but as the concert approached, she would start rehearsing facing the blank wall, as though the audience were behind it. If all went well, though, she would never reach that point. It would be _him_ facing that wall, pretending that he were looking out at a sea of adoring faces, instead.

He didn’t expect much to happen this week, given that he’d only just begun his work. It was going to be much more difficult than he’d originally thought, though; most of the mistakes he’d noticed her make in past rehearsals had _clearly_ been issues with memorization. When they’d worked through sections with the music in front of her, her technique had been flawless. Obviously, if she couldn’t get her music-free performance up to snuff, it would be easy for Gold to justify the switch, but it also meant that she was close to perfection already, and he was running out of time to sabotage her.

And if he was going to sabotage her, it had to be through her technique. He’d nearly forgotten what he was doing when she’d first played through the whole movement for him. No wonder she’d impressed Gold; she played with intensity and passion and _feeling._ Even her errors had been easy to forgive; he’d just wanted to keep listening. And it sounded so _different_ to him when she’d played it, which was jarring, given how well he knew the movement.

He needed to focus next time. He couldn’t get lost in listening. He needed to keep his eyes—and ears—on the goal.

As they rehearsed now, as an orchestra, he waited for the part that they had worked on together. It would be a win-win scenario, as far as he was concerned. Either it would go well, and she would trust him, or (and he hoped very much for this to be the case) Gold would be irritated with the change and punish her for it, shattering her confidence.

She played it well; by dropping that sixteenth note, she was able to play the run flawlessly and confidently, and transition into the next phrase without the tiniest hiccup. From that point onwards, he had to stop paying attention to her, or else he’d lose his place in his own music. He had no doubts that Gold wouldn’t let him take Swan’s place if he couldn’t even play his _own_ part correctly.

The next time Gold paused to give notes and berate members of the orchestra, he turned to Swan, holding out a page of his score. The majority of the orchestra couldn’t hear the conversation, but Killian could.

“I noticed that you dropped a sixteenth note here,” he said, pointing.

“I did,” she said. Killian wasn’t sure if he was irritated with her or proud of her for sounding sure of herself in her response. “It was intentional.”

“But you breathe here,” the conductor continued, shifting his finger along the music accordingly. “So you’re dropping two notes.”

“I know.” She sounded respectful and patient, but still confident. “I’ve been struggling with this run, and I finally figured out why. This is the _only_ place to breathe, but breathing anywhere makes the run more difficult. Dropping the other note means I can breathe _and_ nail the run.”

“Perhaps the problem with the run is that you’re not capable of playing it.” Gold’s tone was full of warning.

“I _can_ play it.” Killian’s mouth opened in surprise. He thought _he_ was the only one who would respond to the conductor like that. “And I’m happy to play you this whole part over and over, so you can hear that I absolutely can play the whole thing, every note, without a problem. But only if I don’t breathe _anywhere_ , and obviously, that’s impossible. I’d rather play cleanly for sure than risk sounding sloppy in front of the audience.”

He held his breath on her behalf. After a moment, which seemed so much longer in context, Gold finally nodded. “Very well. I prefer the clean run. I want you to continue working on this, though, in case I am correct and it’s simply a matter of practice.”

“I will,” she replied. And with that, Gold turned back to the orchestra, snapped at the bassists who were goofing off a little during the interlude, and resumed rehearsal.

It could have been worse. She clearly wasn’t going to let on that she was getting help from anyone else, and so when his sabotage was successful, she likely wouldn’t try to insist to Gold that it was all Killian’s fault. And he’d (hopefully) earned some trust from her: his suggestion had helped her clean up that run, and Gold had accepted the change.

Of course, there were downsides to this success. Not only had he helped her perform _better_ than she had before, but he’d also seen just how stubborn and confident she could be. Killian would need to undermine that confidence.

He’d need to remind her that she was the piccolo player—an expert in an optional, auxiliary instrument—and not anything close to concertmaster.

But then she turned to him and winked. And, without even thinking about it, he smiled in return.

Bloody hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so floored by the response to this story because HI OTHER CURRENT AND FORMER MUSICIANS!! *waves*
> 
> I hope you're all still enjoying the story! As always, I love to hear what you all think!


	3. Andante Sostenuto

Working with Killian hadn’t been as bad as Emma feared. She wasn’t sure how much it was really helping, though. Except for that suggestion about the run, Killian Jones, Concertmaster Extraordinaire, was pretty useless. Half of the suggestions he made weren’t helpful, or didn’t even make any sense. She’d just spent five solid minutes explaining to him why she wasn’t going to take his advice regarding the timing of a particular passage. He’d been insisting that it would sound better if she treated the phrase more elastically, demonstrating on his own instrument by rushing through some of the triplets and slowing down others.

If he thought it sounded good, he was crazy. The way he was playing it reminded her of the way William Shatner spoke. It wasn’t like she was playing that section too mechanically; she was already taking liberties with some of the notes in order to convey the appropriate emotion and passion. Exaggerating even _more_ for effect wasn’t going to make it any better; it would just make it sound comical. She knew Gold would hate it, but even if he didn’t, _she_ did. Why was he making such ridiculous suggestions? She gave him another firm _no_ and packed up her flute so they could grab lunch, as usual.

She _was_ glad he hadn’t given up on their weekly sessions, though. His suggestions might not be helpful, but his presence sure was. The more she played for him, the easier it got to play—the easier it was to believe that she had the whole piece memorized, and that there was nothing to be nervous about. And she _was_ getting better. She was sure that eventually, she’d be able to leave him speechless.

And this was _Killian Jones_ , so full of himself that if there were awards for being full of yourself, he would win. And everyone would know because he was so full of himself, he’d think it was something to brag about. If she could leave him speechless, she’d know she was ready to perform on that stage.

But he wasn’t speechless yet. Sure, he was grasping at straws at this point—he was bound to run out of inane suggestions soon enough. But he wasn’t speechless.

They sat at what had become their usual table at Panera as they waited for their food to be ready. “Just think about it,” he said, still unable to drop the subject regarding his latest crap suggestion.

“So how are you enjoying the Mahler?” It wasn’t even worth trying to segue into another topic, so she just barreled into it. “I’m trying to appreciate the third movement, but it’s just really boring on flute.”

“It’s so lyrical, though.” Good, it worked. “I do wish that the final movement were a little peppier, though, to make up for how melancholy the third is.”

“You know, we have so little to play during the third movement, I didn’t even _know_ that it was supposed to be _Frère Jacques_ until the first day we rehearsed it.”

He laughed. She wasn’t expecting that. She’d been expecting a comment about how she should have listened to a recording of it before coming to that first rehearsal, or one about how he’d been listening to Mahler for years and knew what to expect. “I wish I could be in the audience with my brother when we play it,” he said instead. “He’s not going to be able to take it seriously once he realizes that this sad funereal music is a children’s rhyme. But I know if I even look out into the audience to see his face, I’ll burst out laughing.”

She chuckled. “So you have a brother?”

“Aye.” He paused to take a sip of his drink. “He’s only just moved to the States now that he’s done with his military service. Our parents had me rather late, so by the time they decided to move to the States with me, Liam was already in the navy and couldn’t come with us. He’s been able to visit from time to time, but it’s nice now that he can do so whenever he wants.”

“I take it he’s not a musician?”

“He can handle a guitar, but no, not a musician like either of us.” His beeper went off, as did hers, and they both stood up to get their food.

“You can go first,” she said.

“No, don’t worry about it, love,” he said, grabbing her beeper. “Stay here with the instruments.”

“Okay.” She sat back down, unsure of what to do with herself while she waited. She knew she could mess around on her phone, but she was enjoying the conversation (for once) and was mostly hoping he’d get back quickly.

Fortunately, the Panera employees working the lunch shift on Saturdays were a decent bunch, and Killian returned, balancing both trays with a huge grin on his face. “Your meal, milady.”

“Why thank you, good sir,” she said, playing along and grabbing her tray from him. “Really, thanks.”

He sat down and shrugged. “It was nothing. Really. Anyway. My older brother is quite flabbergasted at this whole _orchestra_ thing. He comes for my sake, but he’s not all that into it.”

“I get that,” she said between bites of her sandwich. “My parents are the same way. They’re proud and supportive—they’re so excited about the concerto—but I know this isn’t their thing.”

“I can imagine how proud they are,” he said, and something flashed in his eyes, too quickly for her to pinpoint what it was. “Winning the concerto competition is an enormous honor.”

She frowned. It wasn’t that he didn’t sound sincere, because he _did_ , but he didn’t sound genuine the way her friends did when they talked about her achievement. “Killian,” she said carefully, “I know it can’t be easy to work with me. If you don’t want to, we can stop, I—”

He reached out across the table and took her hand. “I’m enjoying spending time with you, Swan,” he said firmly. “I’m just glad I can contribute in some way besides just playing my own part in the orchestra.”

“You’re sure?” Even if the expression that had briefly crossed his face hadn’t been envy, it sure as hell looked like something negative.

“I’m sure.” He squeezed her hand gently, before stiffening, as though he were only just now realizing what he was doing. She froze, too; his gesture had struck her as entirely innocuous (just one person comforting another), but his reaction to it seemed to indicate that there was something more going on. And then, as he held her gaze, he very slowly, lightly caressed her skin with his thumb. Her breath caught in her throat.

The moment was interrupted when the man at the next table accidentally swung his messenger bag into Emma’s shoulder as he got up to leave, and Killian released her hand. But even as the conversation resumed and returned to normal, Emma couldn’t help but think that there had been some small but fundamental shift between them.

She had a _lot_ to think about.

* * *

 

As rehearsal progressed the following Saturday, Killian thought about what had happened at lunch the previous week. He knew he should be focusing on what he was doing, especially at this point in the Brahms, but he was competent enough that he could play beautifully _and_ mull over his predicament.

His initial effort to sabotage Emma Swan had all but certainly failed at this point. He’d expected that after the success of his initial suggestion, made over a month ago, she would trust him enough to let him lead her astray. Instead, she’d declined to try any of his other suggestions; either she was just savvy enough to know that they wouldn’t improve her playing, or she’d seen through his charade.

He was fairly certain it was the former; if she’d seen through him, then why bother meeting with him to rehearse?

She’d met with him again this week, despite the apparently useless advice he’d had to offer over the past three weeks. And, he thought, despite the moment they’d shared over lunch.

It had been a particularly fraught moment for him. He hadn’t even meant for the conversation to go in such a direction, and he’d lain awake that night, thinking over how they’d managed to even start talking about their families. He recalled the pain he’d felt, knowing that his parents _didn’t_ get to experience the pride of having him win the concerto competition. And it _was_ frustrating, listening to her play the very piece he’d poured himself into for months, knowing that—unless he could get his act together—it would be _her_ performing it on stage, not _him._

But he’d balked at the suggestion to discontinue their weekly meetings, and it hadn’t simply been that he didn’t want to lose his opportunity to change his fate. The thought of showing up on Saturday and _not_ spending time with her seemed almost laughable; he looked forward to it every week.

There had been one significant benefit, though, to that emotional turn in the conversation: he’d had another idea.

It was clear that she would continue to resist any of his recommendations that weren’t truly helpful, which meant that meeting every week to work on the concerto was officially a waste of time for him. After all, he wasn’t inclined to find ways to help her improve her performance, and if _he_ wasn’t going to help her get better, and _she_ wasn’t going to let him make her worse, they were at an impasse.

However, there was more than one way to sabotage someone.

He’d known for some time that Emma Swan was both stubborn and confident. He’d attempted to see just how stubborn she was, and received his answer. There was nothing he could do to change that.

But confidence? There were other ways to shatter that. And when he’d taken her hand in an effort to reassure her, it occurred to him that he’d found one such way. And so he’d deliberately turned the gesture romantic.

Her reaction had been, thus far, minimal. The conversation had immediately returned to their usual banter, and even today had been normal; if she was thinking about what had happened last week, she hid it well. He’d just have to turn it up to eleven, until she couldn’t hide it any longer.

As rehearsal ended, Killian put his violin away as quickly as possible, lest Emma finish putting away her instrument even more quickly and escaping the rehearsal hall before he could speak to her. To his dismay, though, Gold stopped him and waved him aside.

“You were distracted today, Mr Jones,” he said by way of greeting. “Should I be concerned?”

“No, sir.”

“Ms Swan seems to be finding her footing.” Such a simple statement conveyed a whole lot of meaning.

“I’m working on it, sir. There’s plenty of time.”

“Our concert is in ten weeks, Mr Jones. I would prefer to deal with any issues with our soloist sooner rather than later.”

Ten weeks. Maybe it was enough time. “How late is later?” he asked cautiously.

“Four weeks,” Gold replied. “Four weeks before the concert.”

“I understand, sir.” And the conductor nodded and abruptly left, nearly knocking Swan over as he did so.

Swan—she was still here. Good. He jogged over to her. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah—what an asshole!” she huffed. “What were you talking with him about?”

“He seems convinced the strings were out of tune all rehearsal,” he lied.

She laughed as she adjusted her flute bag. “Well, that’s pretty much bullshit,” she reassured him. “Everyone was fine. He’s just in a mood.”

“Very true.” Although she had _no_ idea. “May I speak with you for a moment?”

Genuine confusion on her face quickly became nervous understanding. “Yeah, okay.” She allowed him to lead her to the empty student lounge down the hall. “What’s up?”

“Well, I honestly don’t think our weekly meetings are all that useful anymore,” he said. “I don’t think there’s anything more I can really help you with, and I’m certainly familiar enough with your playing that I can effectively work with the strings.”

“Okay,” she said slowly. “I think you’re right—I mean, it’s helpful getting in the additional practice, but I guess I could do that on my own.” She seemed sad.

“It’s not just that, though,” he added quickly. It was time to execute the plan he’d been brainstorming all week, and fine-tuning all day. Shuffle feet nervously. Scratch back of ear. Duck head earnestly. “I—it’s just—I don’t really want to stop. Seeing you, I mean.”

The bait was now dangling in front of her, and it was time to see how she’d take it. Would she be oblivious to the connotations, and assume he was speaking platonically? Would she understand his meaning but pretend not to? Why was he so nervous?

“Oh.” There was part of his answer: she’d caught his meaning. It was clear from her tone and from her wide eyes. His hand twitched nervously as he waited for the rest of her response—really, why _was_ he nervous? “I—I don’t—I just—” She shook her head, as though to settle her thoughts. “I’m sorry, I have to go.” And with that, she almost flew out of the lounge.

He felt a mixture of anticipation and disappointment. On the one hand, this hadn’t been an unexpected reaction, nor had it been an undesirable one: he’d flustered her. If she’d valued their budding friendship and wanted to maintain it, she would have looked less terrified and more sympathetic. She might have even tried to let him down gently immediately.

Her incredibly hasty departure, preceded by her practically unable to speak in response, indicated that his improvised romantic gesture the previous week had its intended effect. Whatever her emotions were, they were complex, but he’d planted the seed. He’d simply have to wait until next week, and see how much that seed could grow in those seven days.

The following week, he stood in front of the statue of Beethoven. They hadn’t officially planned to meet, but they hadn’t officially called off their meetings, and because they hadn’t exchanged phone numbers or any other contact information, he had no way of finding out. But she still would have her morning, and he’d happily bet more than a small amount of money that she would show up. She would likely be feeling guilty over how she’d left things with him the previous week, and the thought of him waiting in vain for her to arrive would be too shameful to bear. And so he waited.

“Jones?”

Right on time. She approached him, her bag slung over her shoulder and her face beet red.

“Swan.” He infused his voice with the blend of relief and fear he’d rehearsed in the shower all week. “I wasn’t sure you’d come. That is, after … you know.”

“Look, I know it’s no secret that I’ve dated people in orchestra before,” she said quickly, embarrassed. Had she? It was certainly news to him. “That ended pretty badly for me.”

He silently cursed. He hadn’t known about this previous relationship, and that complicated things. He hadn’t rehearsed this and would have to improvise. Knowing that she valued their time spent together would be the key to closing this. “No need to explain,” he said, making sure to sound as sad and understanding as possible. “I suppose I’ll see you at rehearsal then? I appreciate you being kind, at least.” He smiled, trying to convey resignation with no ill will, and then turned to leave.

As expected, she immediately reacted. “Wait, Killian—hold on.” She grabbed his arm, and he turned back towards her. “I’m just trying to explain why I reacted the way I did,” she said sheepishly. “Can we—maybe find some place to talk?”

They made their way down to the practice rooms; there would be no privacy in the student lounge at this time of day, and if anyone came by and asked them to leave if they weren’t using the room for practice, they could always say they were working on the concerto, as they had been for the past month. Their usual room was free, and although they weren’t going to practice, she still stood in front of him, and he still sat at the piano, out of habit.

She pulled at the hem of her shirt, as though it were riding up. “You’re nothing like I expected you to be, if I’m being honest,” she admitted. “If it weren’t for what happened with Neal, I don’t think I’d be so … well, scared, I guess.”

With _Neal?_ Gold’s _son?_

“Is this for real?” she asked suddenly. “Are you just playing me, or are you really … into me?”

There was hesitation and fear in her voice, but also determination. Her arms were crossed defensively, but her eyebrows were furrowed in curiosity, not anger. Emma Swan was many things in one, and even if he was about to lie to her, he damn well respected her.

“It’s for real.”

Her expression didn’t change. It didn’t change even as she stepped towards him and reached out, prompting him to stand up from the piano bench. It didn’t change even as her hands snaked around his waist and she stood on her tiptoes.

But there _was_ change as soon as their lips met—but it was a change in _him_. Unbidden, his arms wrapped around her, pressing her into him, and he opened his mouth obediently as soon as she teased his lips with her tongue.

God, her mouth. There were jokes, of course, that string players were good at _fingering_ and that wind players excelled at _tonguing_ , and _clearly_ this woman knew exactly what to do with her lips and tongue.

All too soon—he could have gone forever—they were interrupted by a knock on the door. A very irate-looking man glared at them through the window, and Killian quickly stepped over to open the door.

“Practice rooms are for _practicing music,_ ” the man, probably an instructor, said angrily.

“My boyfriend and I are about to practice a concerto,” Emma said, no trace of shame or apology in her voice; his heart skipped a beat at the term she’d used to describe him. “We’re very sorry that we thought it might be okay to kiss after we hadn’t seen each other all week.”

“Well then, get to practicing,” the man said, his face red with what was probably a mixture of embarrassment and irritation, before storming off.

“I guess we should at least pretend to practice then,” Emma said merrily; Killian shut the door and turned to find her pulling her flute case out of her bag and setting it down on the bench. “Just in case he comes back to check.”

“Agreed, but there’s one thing I need to do first.”

“What’s that?” Her curiosity was genuine.

He responded by pulling her towards him, resuming the interrupted kiss. Her fingers curled in his hair, and he did the same for her with one hand, while he kept his other at the base of her back. She swayed into him, and he groaned in appreciation, nipping at her bottom lip and savoring the taste of her. That she had chosen him, said yes, refused to back down—it filled him with a feeling he couldn’t describe, and left him unable to do anything except express himself physically.

Another knock on the door—this time, an amused student who just smiled and shook her head before continuing on—ended the kiss for good. Emma, blushing slightly but otherwise seemingly unflustered, returned to the piano bench to put together her flute. “We’ll find somewhere else next time,” she said as she did so.

“Right.” He was surprised he was still capable of speech. And as he took his place on the bench and she began to play for him, he realized just how much of a mistake he’d made.

He was entirely enraptured as he listened to her, and when he managed to regain his ability to think anything at all, it was that he’d loved the way she stood up for herself—to Gold, to that stuffy faculty member who’d interrupted them, even to _him_ —or it was that he couldn’t wait until they could grab lunch and just sit and talk before rehearsal, or it was that he was so proud of the way that she effortlessly glided through the portions of the movement that had always given him trouble. But for the most part, as he listened, his mind was blissfully blank.

She finished, breathing heavily as always. “So, how was that?”

He couldn’t speak. Not for some time, anyway. He finally regained some of his composure when she laughed. “I take it that you thought it was good?” she asked, clearly pleased with herself.

“Beautiful,” he said hoarsely. “Just beautiful.” She beamed at him.

He had been so wrapped up in trying to sabotage her that he’d completely failed to see what else he was doing.

He, Killian Jones, Concertmaster Extraordinaire, was falling in love with Emma Swan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this chapter lived up to folks' expectations! Two more chapters to go!


	4. Andante

The weeks flew by, and if someone had told Emma three months ago that she was going to be falling in love with Killian Jones, Concertmaster Extraordinaire, she would have reacted pretty negatively. Her specific reaction would probably be dependent on who she was reacting to, but rolling her eyes and walking away, laughing bitterly, and asking the person whether or not they were high were all somewhere on the list of possibilities.

But it was a real thing that was happening, and when she thought back to their initial interactions, when he’d been smug and self-absorbed, it was like remembering an entirely different person.

Killian— _her_ Killian—was sweet and attentive, and for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel any nagging doubts that a boy genuinely _wanted_ to spend time with her. They were late to rehearsal more than once, having gotten entirely caught up in conversation at lunch (or having gotten entirely caught up in _other_ activities in an empty practice room).

During the week, they would text constantly. It had been one of the reasons she wasn’t eager to date another orchestra member: because they lived in different towns and went to different schools, they usually could only see each other when they had rehearsal on the weekends. It was probably the only thing she could think of that _wasn’t_ absolutely amazing about their relationship, and what made it bearable was knowing that he felt the same way.

Today, though, he did seem a little distracted. They’d met immediately after her lesson and made their way to a nearby park; Killian had stopped by a café and picked up hot cocoa and some delicious pastries for them to snack on. She caught him smiling at her as she took a long sip of her beverage, but he looked a little sad.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, wiping some excess cocoa from her lips.

He shook his head. “I’m just thinking about what would have happened if I hadn’t approached you about the concerto,” he replied.

She smiled to reassure him. “You never know. We might still have started talking.”

“Perhaps.” He took a drink of his own hot chocolate, and she had a feeling she wasn’t going to get any more out of him on the subject.

“I wish we had more time together,” she said sadly. “Or, you know, privacy. But time together works, too.”

“I admit, I initially didn’t quite understand your reluctance to date someone in orchestra. But I can appreciate it now. It is rather frustrating that we can’t spend more time together.” He paused, as though unsure of his words. “Is that … why you and Neal broke up?”

“Part of it was.” It was awkward to talk about exes, but it had to happen at some point, right? “He wasn’t as chatty as you are—he rarely texted me in the first place, and sometimes I wouldn’t get replies for a day or two. And when you have limited time together every week, you don’t want to spend it talking face to face about your relationship problems.”

“Aye, that does sound less than ideal. But that was only part of it?”

She pulled a blade of grass and began playing with it. Killian was one of the stars of the orchestra; should she be honest with him? Then again, she knew she could trust him. He was her boyfriend; he lov—well, he cared for her. “I really don’t like Gold,” she admitted. “If it weren’t for the fact that being in this orchestra is going to help me get into degree programs next year, I’d quit.”

To her relief, while he seemed surprised, he didn’t seem defensive. She remembered her big fight with Neal, when she’d finally told him, after weeks of him asking her to be honest with him about what was bothering her, that she didn’t like his dad. He’d challenged her to explain herself, invalidated as many points as she could, and generally left her feeling like she’d been half-drowned and left gasping for breath. Instead, Killian simply asked, “Really?”

She nodded. “I mean, I don’t have to tell you he can be an asshole. If parents had any idea the way he spoke to students during rehearsal, they’d probably have a lot to say to the administration.”

“I suppose I hadn’t thought about him as particularly bad,” Killian said thoughtfully. “I’ve known many a conductor like him. It isn’t enjoyable, no matter which conductor it is.”

“That’s not all though.”

“Oh?”

“Well … it’s hard to explain.”

He reached out for her hand; he didn’t seem to care that her fingers were still a bit sticky from the pastry. She’d have to wash them before rehearsal. “Love, you don’t have to defend yourself to me. If you’d prefer not to write a long treatise regarding your dislike for our very unlikable conductor, I’ll not harass you about it.”

She nodded. “Thanks. I do want to explain, though. I feel like if I can find the words to explain it, maybe I can do something about it.”

“We’ve got time.”

“Okay, well … Gold conducts and chooses the music, but he’s not alone during auditions, or the concerto competition, or stuff like that. So sometimes, people are let into the orchestra he doesn’t like. Or he starts off liking someone, and then he changes his mind. And he … he can’t really _do_ anything directly or parents will complain. So he pits people against each other.”

Killian stiffened noticeably beside her. “What?”

“He tried to do it to me at the beginning of the fall, when Ruby joined the orchestra. Gold took me aside and started asking me all these questions about what Ruby was like, and then just … I can’t explain how, but it felt like he was telling me to alienate Ruby by being condescending. I don’t even remember what he was saying exactly, but he made all these comments and then finish with, ‘Do you understand what I’m saying, Ms Swan?’”

She shuddered at the memory, wishing that she could fill in the blanks and remember more than just how uneasy and uncomfortable she felt. “It would have been bad enough that that happened, but my friend David actually _quit_ after the winter concert because of something similar.”

“David?”

“One of the clarinetists—Mary Margaret’s boyfriend. He was second clarinet, and Neal thought he was a little annoying. Next thing you know, another clarinetist—Lily—is petitioning to have another seating audition because she’s decided David doesn’t deserve his part.”

“And Gold allowed it?”

“He didn’t need to. Lily and her mom made such a big deal out of it, threatening to go to the administration over how unfair it was, and David decided he was totally fed up with it and with Gold. And I know what you’re going to say: that was all Lily and her mom, not Gold. But … after what happened to me, David and I just found it really suspicious. Like, the people Gold likes get rewarded, and the people he doesn’t are pressured to quit—but not by him. It makes being in this orchestra much less pleasant than it would be if I had a conductor who didn’t treat people like that.”

“I didn’t realize this was happening,” he said, and she looked up at him.

“Killian, what’s wrong?” He looked incredibly distressed.

“I’m just … this is pretty terrible.”

She rubbed his shoulder. “You’re one of his favorites. That’s why you didn’t know. Me? I know what it’s like to fall from grace. I know, I know, you’re wondering how I can say that if I won the concerto competition.”

He shook his head. “There were other judges. That’s not what I was wondering about.”

“What’s that?”

His gaze was intense, more so than she’d ever experienced. She had to remember to breathe. “I’ve heard you play dozens of times now. You are stunning. You are talented. I’m wondering how he can justify punishing such a talented person by shunning her to the last chair in the flute section.”

She regained her breath and chuckled. “I like playing piccolo at least. Just don’t tell anyone. If he knew it wasn’t much of a punishment, he’d work harder to get me to quit.”

She’d meant to make him smile, but if anything, he seemed more distraught. “Killian, what the hell is up with you?”

“Nothing,” he said, clearly lying.

“Not true. Tell me. This isn’t okay.”

“I’m just … I’m very angry, hearing about all this. Angry for you, for your friends, for everyone who’s had to miss an important musical experience, all because of the pettiness of an angry old man.”

“It’s okay, Killian.” She set her drink down in the grass as best she could and lifted his arm over her shoulder. “It’s all bearable because I get to come in every week and see you. And every time I play that damn concerto and see the look on his face, it’s worth it.” She laughed, thinking about that expression of disgust as she got better and better. “You know, I have to thank you.”

“For what, love?”

“You know how I told you I wasn’t exactly having problems with memorization, but then I wouldn’t tell you more than that? I know, it was, like, three months ago.”

“I remember. What about it?”

She sighed and leaned into him, relishing his scent. “I just had such bad nerves, it made it so much harder to play from memory. I was so convinced that it was all a trick, and that Gold was going to come up to me after rehearsal and tell me that I wasn’t good enough, and that this was all some huge mistake. But now, thanks to you, I feel just … perfect. I’m not afraid anymore. That’s why I’m not struggling anymore during rehearsal.”

He cleared his throat. “I hardly think you can hold me responsible for that, love. You did all the work.”

“I was so nervous about playing for you,” she elaborated. “I knew you’d be judging me—oh come on,” she cut him off as he began to protest. “You’re the concertmaster, and you auditioned with the same piece I did. Let’s not pretend. But working with you, and seeing the confidence you had in me, it just showed me that I had nothing to fear. So, thank you.”

He didn’t say anything for a while, and she wondered if he knew she was hoping for some sort of reaction. But finally, he kissed the top of her head, and said, very softly, “Anything for you, love.”

But she still didn’t know why he sounded so sad.

* * *

 

It was a good thing that he carried around a recording device regularly. Typically, it was so he could record himself playing and listen back and analyze his work. But today, it was being put, he felt, to much better use.

He, Killian Jones, Concertmaster Extraordinaire, had to protect his orchestra, no matter the risk, to his own career in music, or his relationship.

It had been difficult, the past several weeks, trying to enjoy what he had with Swan. He had never believed it possible to fall so hard, or so fast, but it was undeniable: he was hopelessly in love with her. But every wonderful moment they shared together, whether it was grabbing lunch before rehearsal, sending texts during the week, or stumbling upon some unexpected privacy, was undeniably tainted.

From the moment she’d kissed him that day in the practice room and claimed him as hers, he could only look back in horror at the motivations and machinations that had led them to find each other. No matter what he did, or how much he truly cared for her, he couldn’t erase the fact that for six weeks, he’d been _trying_ to sabotage her, even as he’d been steadily falling in love with her at the same time.

It had been eating at him for the past month and a half, and the longer he went without explaining himself, without telling her the dirty, rotten truth, the more significant the fallout would be when the truth came out. And she _would_ find out, especially now that he was about to do what he’d spent the past two years trying _very_ hard _not_ to do: rock the boat with Gold.

Before Swan, he’d just assumed that people dropping out had done so because they couldn’t handle the typical pressures of being in such a prestigious, demanding youth orchestra, or their parents had made an executive decision after noticing a drop in grades. He’d just assumed that if someone moved up or down in the seating, it was due to merit, and that the better musician was now playing a more prominent or difficult part.

And that was why, when Gold had set him on Swan, Killian hadn’t thought twice about what he was doing. In his mind, he was simply ensuring that the orchestra remained a meritocracy. He had been so sure that he was the better musician, and that the judges had made a mistake, that he had justified his actions as correcting an error.

But that had been all wrong. He’d listened to Swan play the Khachaturian enough times now, in rehearsal and during their private sessions, to know that she was extremely talented. It wasn’t a matter of her being better than him, or him being better than her; all that mattered was that she was incredible, and choosing her to perform as the soloist in the concert had been a wise decision.

And the task that Gold had given him wasn’t about righting a wrong and ensuring that the better musician was rewarded. It was a personal vendetta, waged against Swan for refusing to play his terrible game. Gold had taken advantage of Killian’s loyalty and obliviousness, and the fact that he’d auditioned on the same piece as Swan had.

But Killian was no longer oblivious. And his loyalties had shifted to someone who deserved them.

He took a deep breath as he hit play, slipped the recorder into his pocket, and approached Gold, who was once again packing up after rehearsal.

“Ah, Mr Jones,” the conductor said, his tone icy. “Do we have something to discuss?”

“I think we do, sir. The concert is in four weeks.”

“Yes. I _was_ quite aware of that. And I have also noticed that our Ms Swan appears to be performing _quite_ well.”

“She is.”

“It truly is a _relief_ , Mr Jones, that I will not have to replace her, since we’re so close to the concert. Don’t you agree?”

“I’m done, sir.” He _was_ done. He knew that, even without the knowledge that the conversation was being recorded, Gold would still be slippery with his language. It was like Swan had said: you would leave the conversation _knowing_ that Gold had set you on a path, but without explicitly doing so. He knew that he never would have thought to sabotage Swan had he not spoken to Gold, but he’d still managed to internalize the idea as his own.

“Done with what exactly?”

“This. Swan is amazing. She should be first chair flute, and she damn well deserved to win the concerto competition.”

“Her standing in the flute section _should_ be none of your business.” Gold’s eyes narrowed. “Although it _has_ been made known to me that the two of you seem to have grown quite close recently. Perhaps you are simply feeling a tad overprotective of your new girlfriend.”

“I’m going to talk to the administration.” Enough of the games. “I’m sure they’ll be curious to know how you can justify keeping the winner of the concerto competition at the end of her section.”

“You’d be surprised at what people are or aren’t curious about, Mr Jones,” Gold said mysteriously. “For example, I’m sure _you_ haven’t been curious as to why _you_ are concertmaster and Mr Locksley _isn’t.”_

No. _No._ He had worked so hard, practicing for hours a day, _dedicating_ himself to his instrument. When he’d walked in that day in September, and the packet of music with his name on it had been on the concertmaster’s stand, it had been one of the most satisfying and validating moments of his life.

As he stood frozen, processing what he’d just been told, Gold grinned and continued. “But if you _do_ think it’s worth approaching the administration with your completely baseless accusation, perhaps you might do well to imagine what might happen if Mr Locksley were to decide that your position was rightfully his.”

And that was as much as he was going to get from the conductor; Gold lifted up his briefcase, turned, and left.

Killian felt as though he were floating, unable to quite feel his legs, as he finally made his way out of the rehearsal hall. A brief check of the recording device indicated that he’d been able to capture the conversation clearly enough; he just had to hope with his own story and the recording, it would be enough to convince _someone_ that something unsavory was going on in the orchestra.

He hadn’t just been an unwitting pawn in Gold’s games. He’d benefitted directly from those games, enjoying the privilege and stature of concertmaster. The implication had been clear as day: if the violin section were seated according to ability, he, Killian Jones, would not be first chair. But he _was_ first chair, because Gold wanted him there.

Everything in the orchestra was the way Gold wanted it to be; those who didn’t play by his rules were punished, possibly until they quit. Except Swan.

To his surprise, she was waiting for him outside the rehearsal hall. “There you are!” she said. “What took you so long?”

“I was speaking with Gold. Why are you still here?” He hadn’t anticipated this; he needed to get to the main office before it closed for the afternoon.

Her brow furrowed. “I wouldn’t have left without saying goodbye, Killian. You know that.” She paused, and he cursed internally at the look on her face; she knew something was wrong. “Killian, what happened?”

He needed to tell her. But how could he tell her? This was the sort of conversation that needed to occur in private, when they wouldn’t be interrupted, so he could explain and she could process it. It couldn’t happen here and now, when she needed to go home, and he needed to finish what he’d started. But he needed to tell her, somehow.

“I love you, Emma,” he said quietly, trying not to get sidetracked by her widening eyes. “I love you, and I’ll do whatever it takes to fix things—to make things right.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You were right—about everything. About Gold.” He was expecting it to dawn on her, but she still looked entirely confused and concerned. He took a shaky breath. “He didn’t want you to perform in the concert.”

 _That_ was enough for her to realize it; her mouth fell open and she took a step back. He expected her to start shouting at him, or _something_ , but she simply continued to stare at him in horror. “I’m going to talk to the administration,” he said, unable to find the words to explain just _how_ much he regretted his prior actions. “I was able to record some of my conversation with him just now. Hopefully that and my own story will be enough to convince them to do something about him.”

“This was all … ” She’d finally found her voice, and it was small, and it broke his heart. “This was all to … to hurt me? You’re _working_ for _him?”_

He wanted to deny it, to insist that it had been solely his own self-importance and selfishness that had led him to the decisions he’d made. But that was the problem: he _was_ responsible for what he’d done, and could have chosen differently, but he _had_ been doing Gold’s bidding, even if he hadn’t known it.

“I abandoned that a long time ago,” he said instead. “I know this doesn’t change what I did, Emma. I know that. I just—”

But it was too little too late. She turned and fled. There was nothing left for him to do now, besides make the long walk down to the administrative offices, and hope that they would believe him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go! I'd love to hear what you thought of this one!


	5. Allegro vivace

Emma had been dreading rehearsal, but as it turned out, she shouldn’t have bothered worrying. Because Killian Jones, Concertmaster Extraordinaire, never showed.

She hadn’t spoken to him all week, although he’d tried to talk to her. He’d sent a few texts early on, and while she couldn’t bring herself to delete the messages, she couldn’t bring herself to read them either.

It had just been _too much._ Too much to know that she’d been right when he’d first approached her, that he’d had ulterior motives. Too much to realize that all the bullshit suggestions he’d made were because he was trying to make her play badly. Too much to know that the entire time she’d been afraid Gold would try to take away her victory, she’d been _right._ And the person he’d chosen to do it was right under her nose, handsome and sweet and kind and _two-faced_ and _ill-intentioned_ and _selfish._

And it hurt. More than anything could ever have hurt.

Thank god she’d never told him how she felt, that he’d kept talking after he’d told her he’d loved her, and she didn’t get a chance to reply. He didn’t deserve to know just how much he’d hurt her.

He loved her. Well, too fucking bad for him, she figured. But it still hurt.

She couldn’t bring herself to tell her parents, instead just saying she was stressed about some schoolwork. And she hadn’t talked much to her friends about it, besides grudgingly admitting that her bad mood was due to breaking up with Killian. Mary Margaret was inclined to give advice, and Emma didn’t want any advice right now. She just wanted to be angry. David was usually safer to vent to, but given what he’d endured because of Gold, she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear some of the more vicious things he might say about Killian.

Because even if she couldn’t say it out loud, she did love him. Even if it still hurt.

She had no idea if he’d been waiting for her at the statue of Beethoven or not. After her lesson, she’d taken advantage of her knowledge of the staircases and hallways of the building, and managed to find a different exit so she wouldn’t have to risk encountering him. She’d spent the two hours before rehearsal walking around the nearby mall, stopping for some food court Chinese food for lunch, before reluctantly making her way back to the conservatory for rehearsal. She hadn’t been able to distract herself from her anxiety about seeing Killian, but at least they were at the point where she was rehearsing facing the wall. She wouldn’t been able to ignore the fact that he was right behind her, but it was preferable to accidentally looking at him while she played.

Ugh, had _that_ been his plan all along? To build her up and then break her heart so that she wouldn’t be able to perform? Just _thinking_ about trying to get through the movement with him so close by was making her shake with nerves.

She kept trying to remind herself that this was _Gold’s_ fault, ultimately, and that at the very least, Killian had the good sense to be shamed into admitting what he’d done.

But Killian wasn’t there. And when Gold finally showed up, immediately before rehearsal, clearly fuming with anger, he quickly pulled Robin aside to talk before stepping up to his conductor’s stand and practically throwing his scores down. “Brahms,” he said, practically spitting out the composer’s name. “From the beginning. I expect it will be _flawless.”_

And a very pale-looking Robin sat down in Killian’s seat.

If it weren’t extremely clear that Gold might actually kill anyone who even dared to try to talk during this rehearsal, the room probably would have been filled with whispers. It was obvious that Killian’s absence wasn’t temporary, or else Robin wouldn’t have switched seats. Everyone in the orchestra was probably trying to figure out what had happened. But Emma knew.

Killian had quit.

It was the only explanation. Gold couldn’t kick anyone out without just cause; otherwise he wouldn’t need to resort to dirty tactics to punish the people he wanted out of the orchestra. And while she might be able to believe that the administration would be displeased with Killian’s behavior—if he had actually gone to them, like he’d said—surely they would have called her to ask her if it was true or not before kicking him out.

It was the only explanation. He’d quit. But why?

In protest? To piss off Gold? Gold _definitely_ was pissed, that was for sure. But it didn’t change what he’d done to her. The damage hadn’t magically disappeared.

Rehearsal progressed terribly. Everyone was on edge, trying to avoid the conductor’s wrath, but it just meant that the number of errors due to fear skyrocketed. To everyone’s surprise except Emma’s, she definitely bore the brunt of his anger during the Mahler, with him stopping to berate her for playing her piccolo out of tune as frequently as he could. She knew she _wasn’t_ out of tune, but she knew that’s not why he was really shouting at her.

As they prepared for the Khachaturian, and she stood in her usual spot, facing the wall, he made one last snide comment to her: “I find it quite disheartening that, three weeks before the concert, I need to remind you to play _well_ , Ms Swan.”

But she did anyway, her emotions fueling her more fiercely than they ever had. During the playful parts, she imagined she was condescending to Gold, mocking him with her talent. During the minor parts, the angrier parts, she raged at him for putting her in this horrible position in the first place, and treating her—and so many others—like shit. And during the sad parts, the lyrical parts, she mourned the loss of her relationship with Killian.

It was cathartic. And, of course, pretty damn satisfying, given that there was _nothing_ Gold could have cause to complain about. The most he could get out was a strained, “And it had better sound like that in three weeks,” before addressing the myriad problems (real and imagined) in the orchestra at large.

Normally, when this was happening, she and Killian would catch each other’s gaze and smile at each other, being careful not to get too distracted, in case Gold chastised them. But Robin was there instead, and after giving her a thumbs up, he turned his gaze back to his music.

Why had Killian quit?

This was all wrong.

That evening, she sat in her room at home, trying to focus on her homework, but instead, constantly stealing glances at her phone. He hadn’t tried texting her since earlier in the week; maybe he’d accepted that she wasn’t going to reply. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t read them, right?

Two texts were from Saturday night the previous week, and two more were sent the following Tuesday.

_Admin is livid, probably going to fire him. Do you have your friend David’s number? They want to talk to him. And you._

_Emma I am really sorry. You deserve so much better, and I truly don’t deserve you. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me._

_I just want to let you know before you hear it from anyone else: I’ve quit orchestra. You shouldn’t have to perform with me sitting behind you._

_I love you, Emma. More than I can express. Even if you never speak to me again, it’s true. And I will do whatever I can to repair the damage I’ve done._

Tears spilled down her cheeks. Dammit, she missed him, in spite of everything. Why couldn’t they go back in time so that this hadn’t happened?

Because then they wouldn’t have met. She recalled what he’d said the previous week, when he’d been thinking about what would have happened if he hadn’t approached her about the concerto. She’d assumed he was just reminiscing a bit, and thanking his lucky stars that he’d made the decision.

He had probably been thinking about how terrible his intentions had been.

But if he loved her, then he couldn’t regret his actions entirely, could he? Because they probably _wouldn’t_ have met.

And strangely enough, everything had worked out in her favor (mostly—everything except the broken heart). He’d been trying to sabotage her, and his efforts had only led to her becoming even _better_ than she had been before. And now, Gold was probably going to get fired, and with conservatory applications looming in the fall, Killian had quit one of the most prestigious youth orchestras in the country.

He’d quit for her, not simply as a way to prove his love, but so that she wouldn’t have to play with him on stage behind her. So she wouldn’t be distracted and uncomfortable while she played.

Maybe it was worth considering forgiveness.

* * *

 

It was awkward being at the concert hall as just himself, and not Killian Jones, Concertmaster Extraordinaire. It wasn’t as though he’d never been to a concert here before, as an audience member. But those had been professional concerts and recitals; it was quite different sitting in the audience when the performance was by the group he used to be in.

It was also quite awkward being _alone._ Obviously, he wasn’t the only person in the audience. But given his abrupt departure from the group, his parents and Liam weren’t inclined to attend. He also hadn’t told them about what had happened between him and Swan; they were all still under the impression that the relationship was intact, and if they’d chosen to come with him to the concert, he’d have to explain. He would explain, eventually. But for now, he was still too ashamed of what he’d done to admit to his parents—and his brother especially—that he’d done something quite villainous to the woman he now loved.

He knew Swan was still upset over what had happened, and not just because of the complete lack of contact from her. The administration had dug up her friend David’s contact information when Killian hadn’t been able to supply it, and after speaking with the conservatory, David had gotten in touch to, very gruffly, thanked Killian for standing up to Gold and effecting some real change.

Before ending the call, Killian had finally gotten up the courage to ask after Swan, and after a moment of hesitation, David had mentioned that she wasn’t talking about it, but that she seemed relatively sad.

He’d have preferred that she had felt nothing at all. But instead, she was experiencing this pain because of him. What it if affected her performance tonight?

Then his original plan would have worked: he would have shattered her confidence by breaking her heart. He’d assumed that pathetic plan had ended from the moment they’d kissed. Instead, it had been one that, once set in motion, could not have stopped. And it was his fault.

But he couldn’t do anything about it, besides hope that everything would be okay. And, of course, show up to listen to her play. It hadn’t even been a question. He’d brought flowers, too, but he figured he could hand them off to one of her friends afterwards, and her friend could decide whether to deliver them, keep them, or toss them. Meanwhile, he made sure to sit in a part of the audience where he hoped she wouldn’t see him. The point of quitting had been to prevent her from having to be distracted by him; if she spotted him, the point would have been moot.

He, of course, spotted her as soon as she walked on stage, with the woodwinds. She was dressed in a black blouse and slacks, her concert attire for the majority of the performance. As the soloist, she would have to change clothes; he remembered how frustrated she’d been trying to find an outfit that would be appropriate while still comfortable to play in. He closed his eyes in pain; he hadn’t wanted to think about a memory from a happier time.

Robin was concertmaster now, and he did a fine job with tuning. He did a less fine job hiding his displeasure at shaking Gold’s hand when the conductor walked on stage. Meanwhile, Gold looked as though he thought the entire concert hall was filled with an unbelievably horrendous scent. Good.

The performance began with the Mahler, which was much less enjoyable to listen to than it was to play, at least in his state of mind. The third movement was especially difficult to sit through: the somber nature made it all too easy to reflect on the sadness he already felt, and he also kept thinking of Liam, and how much he’d been looking forward to his brother’s reaction to this particular movement.

He’d forgotten how long this damn symphony was when he wasn’t actually playing it. He just wanted to get to the Khachaturian already. He wanted to get to Swan.

Intermission arrived, and he stayed put in his seat, just in case standing and milling about drew any sort of attention as the orchestra filed offstage. Besides, it’s not as though there was anyone he wanted to talk to. Everyone he knew was currently heading back to a nearby recital hall for fifteen minutes, where they would have time to tune, or go over their music for the second half one last time, or discuss how the concert was going. Swan would be in the bathroom, changing.

The minutes crawled by. Every time he checked his watch, certain that the orchestra was now late, he found that it had barely been sixty seconds. He hadn’t been this nervous before a performance in his life, and he wasn’t even the one playing.

Finally—finally!—the audience trickled back in, the lights dimmed, and the majority of the orchestra came back on stage. Then Robin, who tuned the orchestra again. Then Gold.

Then Swan. The applause as she entered was customary, as was the applause for Robin and Gold, but Killian couldn’t help but feel that it was much more well-deserved. And then his jaw dropped when he saw the floor-length red gown and glittering drop earrings she was wearing.

She looked absolutely stunning, and absolutely ready for battle, and he jumped noticeably in his seat when she gazed out into the audience and he feared, for a moment, that she had seen him. But if she had, she didn’t let on.

And then it began. As the orchestra began to play, and Swan patiently waited for her entrance, Killian felt himself moving slowly to the edge of his seat. And … then—

She swept them all away.

Killian heard a few chuckles as she made her entrance; the playful solo in sharp contrast to the bombastic opening was always a bit surprising for those unfamiliar with the piece. He heard a few small gasps as she flitted easily through the first particularly grueling series of runs; there were probably people in the audience who had no idea that flute players could articulate so many notes so quickly.

The run that he had worked on with her that very first day—the only suggestion he’d made in good faith—came and went, and she’d been able to play it cleanly without skipping the note. It was an effective “fuck you” to Gold. And to him, he sheepishly thought.

The music arrived at a short break for the soloist, but Swan remained poised; if she was relieved to have made it through the first quarter of the piece, she didn’t show it. Instead, she looked relaxed and ready to continue, and continue she did, easing her way into the lyrical heart of the piece.

He’d always loved this part, especially when she played it, but in weeks since he’d heard her play, it had practically been transformed. His heart beat faster; it felt like a message to him, detailing the complexities of her emotions. When she hit the highest notes in the passage, she did so with ethereal grace and beauty, before falling into the angry descending run and her second significant break of the piece.

This was the part that she had struggled with the most as they’d worked together, where she had to balance incredibly complicated sixteenth notes with very important dynamic changes, as she partnered with various members of the orchestra, one after the other. It was one of the regions of the music where there was absolutely nowhere to breathe. And tonight, she danced through it; he could imagine her, in that dress, literally dancing, her movements deliberate but effortless.

She was in the home stretch now, but she clearly wasn’t desperate to get to the end. He knew the expression she wore now: she was enjoying herself, lost in the music, and she wanted to stay in it for as long as she could.

They were now at his favorite part, where the strings as a section had a beautiful duet with her, as she played the playful theme, and they played the lyrical one. He’d begun to imagine that it was just the two of them playing together, and that no one else existed. How cruel it was, that in the actual performance, the opposite was true.

As they approached the end, she hit all the rhythmic runs like a professional, and before he knew it, she was belting out the high Ds like the soprano she was.

The standing applause was deafening. Killian clumsily set the flowers down and stumbled to his feet, only then noticing how wet his eyes felt.

Swan—his beautiful, talented, fierce Swan—bowed graciously before gesturing to give credit to the orchestra behind her, the members of which were all furiously stomping their feet in applause (Gold despised the practice, but it was difficult to clap while holding an expensive instrument). After a few more bows, she made her way offstage, to change and likely grab a glass of water. She would be absent from the first movement of the Brahms, but it was a well-deserved break.

Killian considered sneaking out to see her and congratulate her, since this was the longest movement of the symphony and she should have more than enough time. But that was too much pressure: if she was upset about his appearance, she couldn’t simply escape and go home. And besides, he needed to stick to his original plan to pass the flowers along to someone else and then go home.

Maybe he would stick around. Her friend could deliver the flowers, and if she wanted to see him, she could. And if not? Well, then he would go home. He hoped for the former.

In the meantime, the Brahms was an excellent way to come down from the high that was the Khachaturian. His heart was still pounding, both from the excitement the piece inspired, and from his own personal investment in the performance. And once the first movement ended, Swan returned, dressed again in concert black. She’d left the glittering earrings in (knowing her, intentionally), and he couldn’t look away from her for the rest of the performance.

Finally, it was over. Gold looked like he was merely tolerating the applause, and he couldn’t hide his irritation when someone came out with flowers for Swan. The beautiful blooms made the bouquet Killian had brought look cheap in comparison, but there was nothing to be done about it. And then the musicians filed offstage, and the concert was over.

His heart was threatening to careen out of his chest as he made his way to the reception, trying to spot Swan’s friend Mary Margaret. He finally found the oboist, happily kissing a very tall, brawny blond man. “Um, excuse me,” he said, embarrassed to be interrupting.

“Oh! Uh, Killian, what are you doing here?” Mary Margaret asked, her eyes wide.

“You’re Killian?” the man asked. He held out a hand to shake. “I’m David.”

Ah, Swan’s friend. He’d forgotten that the man was also Mary Margaret’s boyfriend. “It’s nice to meet you,” he said politely. “I don’t mean to intrude. I was wondering if you could give these to Swan.” He held out the flowers. “I don’t know if she’ll want to see me.”

“I can go find out,” Mary Margaret said kindly, taking the bouquet. “Can you wait here a second?” He nodded. He’d already waited for weeks. He could wait a little longer.

“She did really well, didn’t she?” David asked as his girlfriend pushed her way through the throng to locate Swan.

“I don’t think I could adequately describe how amazing she was.”

“Are they really firing Gold?”

“I think so.”

“Good.”

“Aye.”

And then a very determined-looking Mary Margaret was back, with a slightly terrified Swan in tow. “You know, I don’t think anyone’s in the student lounge,” Mary Margaret said, her meaning quite clear.

“Right,” Swan mumbled, clutching the bouquet tightly. “Okay.” She began to walk in the appropriate direction, and Killian hurried to follow.

Unfortunately, Mary Margaret had been wrong; Gold’s son Neal was in the student lounge, and he was having a very heated phone conversation with someone. As soon as he spotted them, he quickly ended his phone call and went to exit the room. But not, Killian saw angrily, before rudely and obviously shoulder bumping Swan as he left.

She hissed in pain, dropping the flowers with her other hand so she could rub at her shoulder. “Fuck!”

“Are you all right?”

“Ugh, I’m fine, just someone’s being an _asshole!”_ She turned to shout the last word at Neal, who was still within earshot. “Really, I’m fine, I’m just sore from so much playing.”

“You must be exhausted, here—” He reached down to grab her bouquet for her and led her to the nearest sofa. “What on earth was he thinking? I thought you two were on good terms.” He sat next to her, ensuring there was enough space so that she wouldn’t feel crowded.

“He’s just pissed because my boyfriend got his daddy fired,” she said with a chuckle. “It hasn’t been officially announced, but obviously Gold’s been informed, and Neal confronted me this afternoon.”

“Gold got himself fired,” Killian said. “If I hadn’t done something, someone eventually would have.”

She looked at him sadly. “I don’t think so, Killian. He’s been the conductor for longer than either of us has been alive. What you did was brave.”

His face and eyes burned. He didn’t want to sound modest by turning down the compliment, but he really _hadn’t_ felt brave. It was simply the right thing to do, and the bare minimum necessary for him to be able to live with himself. It didn’t undo the years of damage Gold had wrought, nor did it undo the hurt he’d caused Swan.

But that’s not why he’d come here tonight. “You were bloody brilliant tonight, Swan.”

She blushed, but she held his gaze. “Do you think so?”

He nodded earnestly. “You put the pros to shame, darling. You were flawless.”

“Thank you.” Her voice was cracking slightly. “I’m glad you came.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.” He swallowed hard. “And I miss you.”

“I miss you, too.” Her face screwed up in tears. “Ugh, shit. I’m sorry. I get so emotional after performances. It’s really annoying.”

“It’s okay,” he said, reaching out to take her hand. “Love, it’s okay. It’s normal.”

She nodded and took a deep breath to calm herself. “Did you really quit for me?” she asked.

“Aye,” he said firmly. “Although to be honest, it had also occurred to me that if I hated Gold for what he did to you—to all of us—that he didn’t deserve to conduct me. It was quite freeing.”

“What about conservatories?” she asked. “They’re going to ask why you quit.”

“And I will happily tell them. And if Gold is truly leaving, then maybe the administration will grant me a late audition for next year.” He chuckled. “Maybe I’ll even be in the first violin section.”

Now she laughed. “What do you mean, ‘Maybe?’ What makes you think you wouldn’t get your seat back?” She shifted so that she was leaning into his side, just like the day in the park when she’d told him all about Gold’s dirty dealings.

“As you said, I was one of Gold’s favorites,” he reminded her. “It turns out, that came with several benefits. Including the position of concertmaster. It’s all right; knowing that my seat will depend solely on my merit will inspire me to play as beautifully as you do.”

“Did I really do well tonight?”

He wrapped his arm around her. “Will you promise to keep this a secret?”

“Sure.”

“You brought me to tears, love.”

They were interrupted by the arrival of an older man and woman, whom he didn’t recognize. But he could guess who they were; the man was carrying Swan’s flute bag, the woman was carrying a garment bag, and both were carrying a great deal of flowers from various bouquets. These were Swan’s parents. “Oh, Emma, there you are!” her mother said. “And who is this?”

Although their embrace was been far from inappropriate, it was intimate enough that Killian was instantly embarrassed, and he and Swan leapt to their feet. “Mom, Dad: this is Killian—my boyfriend. Remember, I told you about him?”

“Oh, _you’re_ Killian!” her father said. “I’d shake your hand, young man, but you can see, we’re a little overloaded.” It was clearly meant to be a joke, but Swan rolled her eyes and grabbed some of the flowers from each of her parents so they could shake hands with Killian. “Nice to meet you.”

“It’s nice to meet you, too,” he replied politely.

“Weren’t you supposed to be in the concert tonight?” Swan’s mother asked.

He opened his mouth to answer, but wasn’t sure exactly how. Luckily, Swan came to the rescue. “It’s a long story, actually. But yeah, he was supposed to be.”

“Well, maybe you can tell us at dinner, although we need to stop at the car first to drop off your dress and your brand new florist shop,” her father said.

“Would Killian like to join us?” her mother asked.

“Um … would you?” Swan asked him. When he didn’t answer right away, she gave her parents a look, and they both wandered off to the side a little. She turned back to him. “I didn’t tell them we broke up,” she said softly. “So they don’t know about … all the stuff. They know that Gold’s a slimeball, though, so they’ll probably enjoy hearing this story.”

“They don’t know that we broke up?” he asked nervously.

She shrugged. “I don’t really talk about this kind of stuff all that much with them, and to be honest, I wasn’t sure what was going to happen between us. I didn’t really talk to anyone besides David and Mary Margaret.”

“No, I mean … ” He paused, unsure how to ask his question without sounding a little pathetic. “Are we still broken up?”

“No, I mean, as long as you don’t want to be,” she said, her voice hopeful. “I’m still hurt over what happened, but I don’t want to lose you. And you clearly _do_ care about me, so—”

“I don’t just care about you, Swan. I love you.”

She smiled. “I love you, too. And I’d kiss you right now, but—”

“Right. Parents.”

“Right. So. Dinner?”

He smiled back. “I’d be honored to have dinner with such a talented flutist and her family.”

She rolled her eyes and groaned as she pulled him back over to where her parents were waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading! I hope that you enjoyed the ending. I had a lot of fun writing this and I'm really blown away (in a good way!) by the response!

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to hear what folks think so far!


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